Quiet times over here in Chemoland.
My oncologist gave me a little talking-to about the need to embrace the lovely pharmaceuticals so readily available to me these days.
“You’re a cancer patient; you really shouldn’t be having qualms about pain medication,” she said, while strongly recommending that I take Percocet at bedtime for the two nights after chemo. “It’s much easier to control pain by getting to it before it starts.”
And it turns out all those years of med school paid off: She was right.
Last week (Taxol #2), I downed the meds as she suggested. No bone pains! (Okay, some minor aches, but well within the range of normal.)
Yesterday was Taxol #3. Sadly, my IV Benedryl euphoria is already a lot less awesome than the first time. The fluorescent lights above my barcalounger do a nice little strobe number for a couple of minutes when it kicks in and my IQ drops 30 or so points, but that’s about it for jollies.
And by evening, the steroids mania arrived while the Benedryl floaty feeling was still lingering. The overall effect is how I imagine those alcohol-laced energy drinks make frat boys feel: Like a hyper drunk.
That still sounds more fun than how I feel: Wired but blah, boring, bored. Like a Jonas brother who’s just downed five macchiattos.
And not wired in a good way, like let’s run around the house Christmas-fying and tidying everything (Mark begs to disagree with that definition of “wired in a good way”), but wired like, I’m exhausted but four hours after going to sleep, sinister forces compelled my eyelids to pop open and my brain to launch into full alert.
This treatment puts me just past the half-way mark for chemo. Eleven weeks down; nine to go. Then it'll be radiation time.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Big-time bummer
At 1 am Sunday morning, I woke to the sound of whimpering.
It was coming from me.
The long bones in my legs ached as they’ve never ached before. They felt as if I’d run a marathon barefoot on concrete or as if a cruel giant had wrung them out like wet laundry. I spent the rest of the night unable to ignore the excruciating throbbing. By morning my arm bones were aching as well. I called the cancer center first thing Sunday morning.
The on-call oncologist thought it might be a reaction to Neulasta, the post-chemo drug that stimulates bone marrow to make more white blood cells. It often causes bone pain – essentially intense growing pains. He suggested taking a Claritin which sometimes can block Neulasta’s effects. An hour later I called him back, barely able to speak through the pain.
“You need to take a Percocet or Vicodin,” he said. I had plenty left over from my surgery and I gratefully complied. Within 10 minutes, the pain mercifully drifted away. You can take Percocets every six hours. At precisely the five-hour mark, I could feel the miracle end and the pain start up again.
By Monday morning I was still in pain, but wanted to stop the Percocets so I wouldn’t be in a zombie fog. I needed to drive to an acupuncture appointment, and I wanted to go back to work on Tuesday as planned. My oncologist’s nurse told me to try ibuprofen. It lessened the pain enough for me to function, and after getting a decent night’s sleep on Monday, I felt more like my regular self and the aching had subsided.
Despite my couple of hours of Benadryl jollies, Taxol so far has turned out to be a big-time bummer.
A few hours after chemo on Friday, I was still loopy from the Benadryl, staggering and slurring, when suddenly the IV steroids kicked in, and I began speed-talking, emitting staccato bursts of information at Mark, who was bemused. By bedtime, the fun, floaty feeling from Benadryl had worn off but the steroids had me wired, even though I was desperate for sleep.
That night, I got just four hours sleep, which left me feeling wasted all day on Saturday. Saturday night, I expected to catch up, and instead got slammed with the bone pain after yup, just another four hours.
Today a friend e-mailed: “Did you hear the news about Elizabeth Edwards?”
I hadn’t heard any updates on her in a while and desperately hoped the news was that she’d had a spontaneous remission. Of course that wasn’t so.
Elizabeth Edwards struck me as a woman with unusual amounts of both grit and grace. Her final public statement, issued on Monday just a day before her death, exemplifies that:
It was coming from me.
The long bones in my legs ached as they’ve never ached before. They felt as if I’d run a marathon barefoot on concrete or as if a cruel giant had wrung them out like wet laundry. I spent the rest of the night unable to ignore the excruciating throbbing. By morning my arm bones were aching as well. I called the cancer center first thing Sunday morning.
The on-call oncologist thought it might be a reaction to Neulasta, the post-chemo drug that stimulates bone marrow to make more white blood cells. It often causes bone pain – essentially intense growing pains. He suggested taking a Claritin which sometimes can block Neulasta’s effects. An hour later I called him back, barely able to speak through the pain.
“You need to take a Percocet or Vicodin,” he said. I had plenty left over from my surgery and I gratefully complied. Within 10 minutes, the pain mercifully drifted away. You can take Percocets every six hours. At precisely the five-hour mark, I could feel the miracle end and the pain start up again.
By Monday morning I was still in pain, but wanted to stop the Percocets so I wouldn’t be in a zombie fog. I needed to drive to an acupuncture appointment, and I wanted to go back to work on Tuesday as planned. My oncologist’s nurse told me to try ibuprofen. It lessened the pain enough for me to function, and after getting a decent night’s sleep on Monday, I felt more like my regular self and the aching had subsided.
Despite my couple of hours of Benadryl jollies, Taxol so far has turned out to be a big-time bummer.
A few hours after chemo on Friday, I was still loopy from the Benadryl, staggering and slurring, when suddenly the IV steroids kicked in, and I began speed-talking, emitting staccato bursts of information at Mark, who was bemused. By bedtime, the fun, floaty feeling from Benadryl had worn off but the steroids had me wired, even though I was desperate for sleep.
That night, I got just four hours sleep, which left me feeling wasted all day on Saturday. Saturday night, I expected to catch up, and instead got slammed with the bone pain after yup, just another four hours.
Today a friend e-mailed: “Did you hear the news about Elizabeth Edwards?”
I hadn’t heard any updates on her in a while and desperately hoped the news was that she’d had a spontaneous remission. Of course that wasn’t so.
Elizabeth Edwards struck me as a woman with unusual amounts of both grit and grace. Her final public statement, issued on Monday just a day before her death, exemplifies that:
You all know that I have been sustained throughout my life by three saving graces -- my family, my friends, and a faith in the power of resilience and hope. These graces have carried me through difficult times and they have brought more joy to the good times than I ever could have imagined. The days of our lives, for all of us, are numbered. We know that. And yes, there are certainly times when we aren't able to muster as much strength and patience as we would like. It's called being human.
But I have found that in the simple act of living with hope, and in the daily effort to have a positive impact in the world, the days I do have are made all the more meaningful and precious. And for that I am grateful. It isn't possible to put into words the love and gratitude I feel towards everyone who has and continues to support and inspire me every day. To you I simply say: you know.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Taxol No. 1: "Better living through chemistry"
At chemo on Friday, my roomie, her husband, my friend Jessica and the nutritionist were all engaged in a spirited discussion about Ethiopian culture and lifestyle, when the Benadryl in my IV hit my system.
I realized I had an important point to contribute to the high-level discourse.
“Hey, guys,” I interrupted. “Hey, I feel like I’m floating. It’s like I’m on the ceiling looking down at all of you.” I groped for the right phrase to capture the experience and was proud when I concocted the perfect original description. “It’s, it’s like far out.”
They all turned to me politely. Bernadette, the nutritionist, who has years of experience with chemo patients, was the first to react. She rolled her eyes and a huge smile spread across her face.
“Better living through chemistry, eh, Carolyn?” she said. “Just wait until tonight when the steroids kick in. Then you’ll be hyper.”
Finally, finally after all these weeks of drugs that cause exhaustion, nausea and
various aches and pains, finally, I’ve scored a decent drug. Something downright, dare I say, recreational.
Intravenously administered Benadryl, I think I love you.
People keep asking, “Why don’t you get yourself some medical marijuana?”
Clearly I’d qualify, since you can get a prescription for it with a hangnail. But I gave up pot after freshman year because it triggered too much paranoia. Faithful readers of this blog know that I’m already doing a perfectly fine job becoming a paranoid wreck without any pharmaceutical intervention.
Actually I have done really well with not dabbling in paranoia over the past couple of weeks. I’ve stopped Googling medical sites, and I didn’t even have to have Mark install child-monitoring software on my laptop.
Still, there was a paranoia trigger at chemo.
An hour into my treatment, suddenly a nurse bolted past our door, soon followed by three or four other nurses, all running flat out. “Something’s happening,” said Vivian, my roommate, looking scared. “I’ve never seen that before.” A loudspeaker crackled. “Code Indigo in the treatment center,” a voice intoned. What, they think cancer patients can't translate “indigo” into “blue”? From my years of “ER” viewing, I knew Code Blue means cardiac arrest. Vivian and I looked at each other; we were both close to tears. I could tell we were thinking the same thing: This was a sobering reminder that a lot can go wrong when you pump poison into someone’s veins.
I’m now on to the second half of chemo, getting a drug called Taxol, every week for 12 weeks. It’s derived from the bark of the Pacific Yew. A cancer-support group buddy dropped off a branch from her yew tree “to propitiate the spirits of the forest who gave us this drug” as she poetically put it. Taxol’s main side effect is neuropathy, and to forestall that I’m getting weekly acupuncture and have a whole new set of supplements to choke down. Taxol also can cause severe allergic reactions, hence the IV Benadryl as well as the steroid, Decatron.
Over Thanksgiving, I allowed myself to take a little break from the Cancerverse, indulging in a diet soda now and then, being less scrupulous about the gallons of water I’m supposed to drink, skipping some of my vitamins and generally just trying to feel more normal. When the holiday was over, I didn’t get back on track.
Bernadette took one look at my lab results and called me out.
“You’re not drinking enough water,” she said right away. “Look how your uric acid levels are elevated.”
A girl can’t get away with anything around here.
I realized I had an important point to contribute to the high-level discourse.
“Hey, guys,” I interrupted. “Hey, I feel like I’m floating. It’s like I’m on the ceiling looking down at all of you.” I groped for the right phrase to capture the experience and was proud when I concocted the perfect original description. “It’s, it’s like far out.”
They all turned to me politely. Bernadette, the nutritionist, who has years of experience with chemo patients, was the first to react. She rolled her eyes and a huge smile spread across her face.
“Better living through chemistry, eh, Carolyn?” she said. “Just wait until tonight when the steroids kick in. Then you’ll be hyper.”
Finally, finally after all these weeks of drugs that cause exhaustion, nausea and
various aches and pains, finally, I’ve scored a decent drug. Something downright, dare I say, recreational.
Intravenously administered Benadryl, I think I love you.
People keep asking, “Why don’t you get yourself some medical marijuana?”
Clearly I’d qualify, since you can get a prescription for it with a hangnail. But I gave up pot after freshman year because it triggered too much paranoia. Faithful readers of this blog know that I’m already doing a perfectly fine job becoming a paranoid wreck without any pharmaceutical intervention.
Actually I have done really well with not dabbling in paranoia over the past couple of weeks. I’ve stopped Googling medical sites, and I didn’t even have to have Mark install child-monitoring software on my laptop.
Still, there was a paranoia trigger at chemo.
An hour into my treatment, suddenly a nurse bolted past our door, soon followed by three or four other nurses, all running flat out. “Something’s happening,” said Vivian, my roommate, looking scared. “I’ve never seen that before.” A loudspeaker crackled. “Code Indigo in the treatment center,” a voice intoned. What, they think cancer patients can't translate “indigo” into “blue”? From my years of “ER” viewing, I knew Code Blue means cardiac arrest. Vivian and I looked at each other; we were both close to tears. I could tell we were thinking the same thing: This was a sobering reminder that a lot can go wrong when you pump poison into someone’s veins.
I’m now on to the second half of chemo, getting a drug called Taxol, every week for 12 weeks. It’s derived from the bark of the Pacific Yew. A cancer-support group buddy dropped off a branch from her yew tree “to propitiate the spirits of the forest who gave us this drug” as she poetically put it. Taxol’s main side effect is neuropathy, and to forestall that I’m getting weekly acupuncture and have a whole new set of supplements to choke down. Taxol also can cause severe allergic reactions, hence the IV Benadryl as well as the steroid, Decatron.
Over Thanksgiving, I allowed myself to take a little break from the Cancerverse, indulging in a diet soda now and then, being less scrupulous about the gallons of water I’m supposed to drink, skipping some of my vitamins and generally just trying to feel more normal. When the holiday was over, I didn’t get back on track.
Bernadette took one look at my lab results and called me out.
“You’re not drinking enough water,” she said right away. “Look how your uric acid levels are elevated.”
A girl can’t get away with anything around here.
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